Cellar Door                                                 
            for Jennifer Foerster

So I'm reading your book,
the part where you let go
of your imaginary friends
& I stop because mine are
suddenly back. It's terrible,
they never liked me. I didn't
remember that until now,
until you opened your hand,
they hated me. Why the hell
would I invent playmates
who stopped playing when
I approached, who sighed
when I spoke? There was
actually a day when I begged,
begged to go with them
to the cellar. They refused &
blocked the door. Forty years
they've been down there.
They look it, too; rotten
playsuits, stick bodies,
scribbles for eyes. They
squint, slow to react, slow
to guess what's next, even
when I push them into the car.

by Brendan Constantine

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Brendan Constantine is a poet based in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and he presents his work to audiences across the country. In addition to teaching at the Windward School, he routinely offers workshops to hospitals, care centers and with the Alzheimer’s Poetry Project. His fourth collection, ‘Dementia, My Darling’ is due out from Red Hen Press in 2016.